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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30047487">Care</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diminua/pseuds/ThisLullaby'>ThisLullaby (Diminua)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Control [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>James Bond (Craig movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Age Difference, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dom/sub, M/M, Mild S&amp;M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 02:21:43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,469</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30047487</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diminua/pseuds/ThisLullaby</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It's late at night, and M has just told Q he hasn't finished with him (this fic leads straight on from Chapter 6 of Control, and will be smut and negotiation, mostly, with feelings leavened in as the characters dictate).</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>M | Gareth Mallory/Q</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Control [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2210427</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>‘Take this off, all of it.’</p><p>Q hesitates – a bare moment of time. Mallory is loosening his own cufflinks, doesn’t comment, as Q shrugs out of his cardigan and drapes it over the chair, slackens the knot of his tie and pulls it over his head before starting on his shirt buttons.</p><p>He wears another layer underneath, because of course he does, and under that he’s as hairless as a peeled egg, although whether that is nature or strip wax, Mallory has no idea.</p><p>He’s also every bit as skinny as expected, although there’s more muscle around his buttocks and calves. M wouldn’t fancy his chances in a scrap, but he certainly looks like he could run from one. His cock is pinker than expected - like his pretty pink lips - and curves slightly back towards his belly when erect. His cheeks are turning pinker too, as M discards his jacket and finishes rolling up his shirt sleeves, then perches back on his desk to watch, arms folded, as the very last of Q's clothes come off, bundled up and tossed on a chair with all the other things, and Q sweeps his hand back through his fringe in what M is starting to recognise as a mild form of self-soothing.</p><p>'Come here.' M takes him by the shoulders as he steps into touching distance, turns him to take M’s place on the desk, sitting at first, and then pushed over until he is flat on his back and M has moved behind him, telling him to put his hands above his head.</p><p>Q does as he’s told. Feels the slight tug as Mallory uses his own tie to secure Q’s wrists, opening one of the drawers he usually keeps locked and taking just two things out before shutting the loose ends of the tie in the drawer and locking it, so that there’s enough tension to pull the thing tight.  </p><p>‘This won’t hold if you want to get free. It’s just a reminder. I can tie it again if you want to test that.’</p><p>‘No, that’s fine. I trust you.’</p><p>Mallory closes his arms around Q’s wrists, stroking up his forearms, exerting the smallest amount of pressure. ‘Have you had sex with anyone since your last medical?’</p><p>‘No sir.’</p><p>‘You realise you probably should have asked me something similar earlier?’ M has access to Q’s medical record of course, but unless he’s been hacking in (always a possibility although M can’t think why he would have bothered before tonight) Q has no access to his.</p><p>‘I trust you.’ Q says again. It’s warm in here, the desk wide enough that his arse is just resting on the far edge. The only discomfort is how exposed he is. Still he shivers as M turns his attention to Q’s glasses.</p><p>‘I’m in two minds about whether to let you keep these or not.’</p><p>‘It depends on whether you want me to be able to see anything.’ He blinks disarmingly when Mallory decides he doesn't. Squints at the ceiling as the panels blur.</p><p>M makes a mental note to check exactly what Q can and can’t see. At least – assuming this goes anywhere. Certainly the difference is enough to create a tension that wasn’t there before. Not distrust, but something more instinctive.</p><p>Good.</p><p>M strolls back around the desk. He’s always thought it absurdly large, quite frankly, and flanked it with ridiculous <em>lion couchant</em> bookends just to fill the space.</p><p>He puts the desk lamp on in passing, because why not have the extra light? It floods Q sideways, highlighting his ribs, the darker shadow of hair and hollows, the quickness of his breathing. The moment he gives up any attempt to follow M with his eyes and settles his head back and lets them close.</p><p>He is just on the edge of the desk. Has to throw all his weight on it as M pushes his thighs back to see better, ghosts a dry fingertip down under Q’s balls and over where there’s just a little give already. He’s pink here too – shiny when M sucks his fingers into his mouth and tries again, feels it slip and ease in, gentle for now.</p><p>It burns dully as M adds another finger. There needs to be more lubrication. Q doesn’t say so. He’s caught his breath, waiting to see what happens. Still trusting.</p><p>He very nearly whines when M pulls away, lowering Q’s legs so that he's resting naturally again.</p><p>‘Something you wanted to say Q?’</p><p>‘You’re playing with me.’</p><p>‘Yes. I do that.’ M says unrepentantly, picking up the small bottle he took from the drawer earlier. ‘I have a cruel streak. Besides, you’re ever so pretty squirming on my fingers. You like being penetrated, don’t you?’ He’s pushing Q’s legs back again, bending the knee. Q’s throat works before he can answer the question.</p><p>‘Yes.’</p><p>‘Yes <em>Sir.’ </em>Mallory correct him, not unkindly.</p><p>‘Yes sir.’ Q repeats obediently. ‘Sorry sir.’</p><p>M has everything slick now, both fingers burrowing easily in. Q’s hips lift a fraction in welcome, and M fucks him with them for as long as he cares to, savouring the heat and cling of Q’s body, watching his fingers disappear to the crease where they meet his palm, flexing his knuckles, twisting.</p><p>Q’s breathing grows heavy, hips pressing forward to meet M halfway, wanting more.</p><p>M ignores him, doesn’t even trouble to comment. Q is not nearly frustrated enough yet.</p><p>He takes a third finger with a groan of pleasure, deep in his throat, M’s fingertips grazing his prostate.</p><p>‘Can you come from this sort of thing?’ M asks. His voice has roughened at the edges, gone greedy, but Q is too distracted to notice. Doesn’t even register the question until M pauses, just briefly, to let it sink in.</p><p>‘Yes.’</p><p>‘You’re not going to.’ It’s not clear if that’s an instruction or a promise, even when M’s fingers slip away, lingering just long enough that Q might think he was relenting.  </p><p>‘Turn over.’</p><p>Q rolls as best he can – it’s an awkward shuffling business, without his arms to give leverage, and takes just long enough to make him self-conscious.</p><p>M is, if not patient, not displeased. Making a point of not helping but moving back in once Q has put himself where he wants him. His hands braced either side of Q’s narrow hips as he buggers into him.</p><p>He makes it selfish, abrupt. Q has to brace himself up on his elbows, pulling the tie free from the loose vice of the drawer, but it hardly matters at this stage. It’s a pounding, blinding rush to the end, a shocking, sudden, shudder of M’s pleasure, and then he is left bowed over Q’s sharp spine, softening cock sheathed in Q’s skinny arse as he hitches his breath.</p><p>The butt plug is rubbery but solid, short but fat. M presses it lightly in, listening for protests he doesn’t really expect to come.</p><p>They don’t. Q’s hole stretches and gathers it in, and Q twitches. He’s still hard, cock bobbing luridly as Mallory pulls him to his feet and lifts him bodily to sit on the desk, the plug moving inside him and making him twitch again.</p><p>He’s ruined for coherent thought. Even when M gives him back his glasses he doesn’t put them on at once, just sits there, holding them, all limbs and long fingers.</p><p>‘<em>Now</em> do you want to get off?’ M asks.</p><p>‘Yes.’ Mallory hasn’t moved out of his personal space, and from here Q is close enough to focus, his eyes startled and imploring as he looks up. ‘Sir. You know I do.’</p><p>His hair is soft. Everything about him is soft right now. His fingers still closed delicately around his folded spectacles, the little catch of breath as M locks his bare wrists around Q’s shoulders, pulling him closer still.  </p><p>‘Shall I tell you what I want?’ M asks, not bothering to wait for an answer. ‘I want to get you dressed, walk you back downstairs to pick up your laptop, drive you home in the nice, comfortable estate car you outfitted with tinted windows for me, and then – assuming we can find a suitable place to park – <em>then</em> get you off.</p><p>Q thinks he has actually stopped breathing. Certainly he can’t speak. It sounds like wanton cruelty, but declining is an impossibility. His rational mind would insist that’s he’s not like this, but he so obviously is. He would do anything right now.</p><p>‘Well,’ Mallory prompts him. ‘is that something you think you can do for me?’</p><p>‘I..’ Q wets his lips. Forces himself to speak. ‘I.. yes, I think so.’</p><p>‘Good. And then tomorrow we can discuss if this is the sort of thing you’re interested in pursuing further.’</p><p>Q’s brain is still largely offline but he manages to replace his glasses. Pull his t-shirt back over his head when M hands it to him, stand up and take his boxers, barely repressing another small shudder as it makes the plug move inside him. Or his body move around the plug. He’s never looked into that particular overlap of biology and physics. And it’s so, so hard to think right now.</p><p>M helps him button his shirt and fix his tie before he retrieves and knots his own. Tries to smooth Q’s hair into some sort of order, too, but that’s always been a lost cause.</p><p>‘Right. Shall we go?’</p><p>The walk back downstairs is like something from a fever dream. Q is marinating in his own arousal, hot from the core out. He has to concentrate to close down his laptop properly, pack it away, fetch his coat. Reflex actions no longer functioning as reflex.</p><p>Following M though, that’s easy. He just falls in, naturally, as if he’s been doing it forever. M opens the passenger door of the car without speaking and Q stoops and sits, buckles his seat belt. Ignores the instinctive clench of his body against the feel of something inside him.</p><p>The radio comes on as M starts the engine. Some kind of talk show. Possibly a film critic.  </p><p>‘You can change that if you like.’</p><p>Rummaging through M’s compact discs is a trivial distraction. Q picks a jazz pianist he’s never heard of for just that reason, looks out at the passing lights along the waterfront, the cranes at Elephant and Castle, and doesn’t speak unless he’s spoken to. This late at night the journey is swift and there is somewhere to park. M reverses in. Turns the engine off.</p><p>The music cuts out too. It’s quiet again as M unclicks his seatbelt and turns in his seat to loosen Q’s buckle, slide the leather tongue of the belt free, pull down the zip. Q can hear every sound.</p><p>‘Try and lift yourself up. Yes, like that.’ There’s approval in Mallory’s voice, stroking across Q’s senses as he puts his arms back to clutch the headrest and raise himself high enough for M to slip a finger through the ring at the end of the butt plug and pull it free.</p><p>He drops it into an empty coffee cup in the doorbin to be dealt with later.  </p><p>‘Keep your hands where they are.’</p><p>Q’s head falls back as M gets a hand around his poor neglected cock at last, the other spread against the back of Q’s seat so that he can watch in close quarters in the dim light of the lampposts, admire the way Q’s lips part to catch his breath, the swell of his Adam’s apple in his throat as M wanks him off.</p><p>Soon Q is pushing up into his hand, doing all the work himself. So wound up. So eager. Just the suggestion of a whine in his panting breath. Noise he’s probably not even aware of making, poor love.</p><p>If M was a younger man he might be hard himself, at that, but twice in one night is more than sufficient these days. It’s not a hardship. If anything it makes it easier to savour moments like this, the sheer desperation in Q’s body as he flexes and thrusts wantonly into M’s fist. The way he stills and keens as his cock jumps against M’s fingers and spits lavishly out.</p><p>He slumps, sticky and panting, but satisfied at last, as M wipes his fingers on Q’s T-shirt before tucking him in and zipping him up.</p><p>‘Better?’</p><p>‘Much better, thank you.’ So polite. M doesn’t insist he say ‘sir’ this time. Only presses a chaste kiss to his temple.</p><p>‘Go on. I’ll see you tomorrow.’</p><p>‘Right.’ Q lets himself out and closes the door behind him, turns to give a slight wave at the gate, feeling ridiculous, (M smiles – Q’s ridiculousness has its charm) and lets himself in the door.</p><p>M waits until the light goes on in the window before he drives away.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Discussion.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Subsiding on the couch with cheese on toast and tea and cats Q is conscious of a creeping sense of unreality.  That did just happen didn’t it?</p><p>He knows it did – of course it did. He can still feel the delicious exhaustion it’s left him with. And the state of his clothes is best not dwelt on.</p><p>It’s the recklessness that’s disorientating. Q would have said that both he and M were supremely rational people. The last men to get swept away by purely physical wants.   </p><p>And yet he can still feel the shift – no, not shift - the new awareness of something that was always there. Something he wants to prod at, like a loose tooth.</p><p>Bugger. </p><p>They’re going to have to have this discussion aren’t they? And it’s going to be bloody excruciating.</p><p>He's not exactly surprised to find a meeting invitation in his calendar when he logs in next morning. Not from Moneypenny but directly from M. Important but not urgent, apparently.</p><p>10am in M’s office.</p><p>No. Q opens it up and lets his fingers hover, thinking about how to phrase what he needs to say. Wonders if he’s being ridiculous, decides he doesn’t give a stuff if he is. He’s not having this conversation there. A work meeting, yes, absolutely. Sex again – very probably. A discussion about whether he wants to take whatever happened last night further, no. Emphatically not.</p><p>He types something, deletes without sending, flirts with the idea of ignoring it for now and dealing with it when he actually gets in. There’s no read receipt. M won’t know he’s seen it already.</p><p>Or he could text. Strictly speaking it’s not work-related, but then neither of them are on the clock yet and he’s not the one sending bloody calendar invites through the system is he?  </p><p>Urgh, relationships. This probably doesn’t even qualify as a relationship yet and it’s already a minefield.</p><p>Sod it. Q picks up his own work phone and taps out something innocuous before he can second – or third, or fourth, or whatever it is by now – guess himself.   </p><p>
  <em>Can we change the venue for this morning’s meeting? </em>
</p><p>There. Good enough. There’s a response by the time he’s out of the shower.</p><p>
  <em>Yes of course. As long as it’s private. Anywhere you like. </em>
</p><p>Another text comes in while he’s considering that. A landline number.</p><p>
  <em>You can reach me here until 8.35 if talking is easier. </em>
</p><p>It’s 8.20 now. Latish, really, if Q wants to get in by nine. They’ll have to make it quick. </p><p>M is reading through newspapers when the telephone rings in the hall. Where, as 007 has been kind enough to point out, it would probably be a wonderful way to get him in range if someone were planning on machine-gunning him through the front door.  Although M feels that by the time someone is up to the fourth floor of his serviced and supposedly secure building with a machine gun the front door is only a formality anyway.</p><p>Anyway it almost never rings. He keeps it partly for the aesthetic and partly because it’s one of the few numbers he can still remember off the top of his head.</p><p>He quotes it now and adds the customary ‘<em>Gareth Mallory speaking</em>.’  </p><p>‘Oh.’ Q sounds surprised. ‘No caller display I take it?’</p><p>‘Hello Q. No it’s all very archaic. Yards of curly green wire.’ M lowers himself into the shallow seat next to the table and stretches his legs out. ‘But you didn’t call to talk about that. You wanted to change the venue for our discussion.’  </p><p>‘Yes sir. Nothing against your office but it doesn’t feel like neutral territory, if that makes sense.’</p><p>‘It makes perfect sense. Your office will be busy, of course.’</p><p>‘I was thinking about Room 53.’</p><p>Room 53 is supposedly a meeting room, but functions better as a theatre box for important (carefully vetted) visitors to stand and admire agents on the firing range. Soundproof, but leading off a busy corridor. Safe enough to talk, but they won’t be able to do much else. Certainly nothing like last night.</p><p>M has no idea if that’s what Q is trying to ensure, but it might be. He wouldn't blame him.  </p><p>‘Room 53 is fine. I’ll see you there later.’</p><p>‘Right. 10 o’clock.’</p><p>In the event though, Q is late. Only a fraction, barely two minutes, but late all the same.</p><p>‘Sorry sir. Something blew up.. not literally blew up but.. well you’ll hear about it from Tanner no doubt.’</p><p>‘No doubt.’</p><p>M watches as Q sits opposite him across the narrow table. Folds his hands as if he wishes he had a computer keyboard or a cup of tea to keep them occupied. Sees his eyes skim around the walls, alight on the window. Go back to his folded hands.</p><p>‘Well this is awkward.’ Q says.</p><p>Today’s jumper is brown and grey and zigzagged. It might be considered quite nice, jazzy even, if Q were seventy years old and pottering around on an allotment in the depths of winter. M has heard of something called normcore. Possibly this is a manifestation.</p><p>This is emphatically not the moment to ask.</p><p>What it does do is make him feel terribly fond, and painfully middle-aged, and very aware he knows what he wants, but has no idea about Q, not really. Not in the cold light of day and now they’ve both calmed down a bit.   </p><p>Which is why they have to have this conversation now. He’s everything M wants, and needs to restrain himself from grabbing at.</p><p>‘Let’s start with the obvious question. Are you interested in pursuing this further?’</p><p>‘Yes. But I don’t know what I’m doing.’ Q gathers his thoughts. He's expected this - it's uncomfortable, but it shouldn't be difficult. ‘And that’s exciting, but it’s also rather daunting. And I feel as if I’m having an interview, by the way.’ For the first time he makes full eye contact, a wry twist to his mouth. ‘Do you mind if I get up and walk around or something?’</p><p>‘Not at all.’</p><p>Q drifts, naturally enough, to the window. There’s only one person using the firing range right now. They’re not doing very well, but presumably that’s why they’re practicing.</p><p>‘I suppose I’m asking how this works.’ He tells the reinforced glass. ‘What happens if I want it to stop. Do I need a safeword or something?’ M wonders if he's been looking things up, or if that's the sort of terminology you can randomly stumble across on the internet.</p><p>‘I think at this stage it’s better to stick with words you know already. No means no, for example, as do words like Don’t or Stop. And if you say anything of those things I will stop at once and we can reassess.’</p><p>‘That simple?’</p><p>‘That simple. I’m an arrogant bastard and need to be told sometimes, so don’t be afraid to tell me.’</p><p>He gets another wry smile for that, Q turning and canting his hips back against the windowsill.</p><p>‘If there’s anything you want to put completely off the table right now, that’s fine too.’ M prompts.</p><p>‘You said you have a cruel streak. Do you want to.. well, hurt me?’</p><p>The bluntness of the question doesn’t seem to bother M at all. ‘Only if that’s something you’re also interested in.’</p><p>‘I don’t think so.’ It’s frustrating. Yesterday morning he would have been sure. Or thought he was. He turns back to the glass. Behind him the chair legs scuff the carpet as Mallory gets to his feet.</p><p>‘Then we’ll put it off the table for now. You can always change your mind, Q.’ He leans back against the glass. He wants to touch, turn Q’s face to look at him properly instead of the glance he gets instead. ‘You’re always allowed to change your mind.’</p><p>His voice <em>does</em> things to Q when he lowers it like that. Makes Q want to trust him.</p><p>‘I have some rules if you want to hear them.’</p><p>‘Go on sir.’</p><p>‘Firstly, as I’m sure you realise, we’re going to have to keep this quiet.’</p><p>Q nods. That much is all too obvious. </p><p>‘If you start seeing anyone else you tell me. And I’ll extend the same courtesy, should it happen.’ </p><p>‘Right.’ His eyes close briefly as M finally gives into the temptation to reach out, run his fingers down the curve of Q’s cheek. </p><p>‘I know your given name, of course, but I think of you as Q. And if I’m perfectly honest I rather enjoy the way you call me sir. I suggest we continue to do that.’</p><p>Q nods again, eyes half closing a second time, even as he tries to collect his thoughts.</p><p>‘Isn’t there’s someone..’</p><p>‘On the range? No, they’ve gone.’ He’s combing fingers through Q’s hair now. ‘Anything you want to discuss? Or amend?’</p><p>Q shakes his head. It's a comfort to have rules, but he doesn’t want to talk about it any more right now.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Music and dinner.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>‘It’s oh so quiet. Ssh, ssh, it’s oh so still. You’re all alone, and so peaceful until..’ </em>
</p><p>Well quite, M thinks as Bjork hits the loud bit and he hits the volume button. All so terribly peaceful and boring until Vauxhall Cross exploded and the powers that be decided it was his problem.</p><p>It seems laughable now, but up until that point he really had thought his blood had cooled with age and paperwork and endless bloody committee meetings. That he wouldn’t be getting himself shot or feeling this heady insanity again.  </p><p>Although what he’s mostly feeling at the moment is a bit drunk. The weather is filthy out, and he can see a great deal of sobriety in his future if things with Q develop as he’d like (and it’s not as if his job is the sort you can do half-sloshed either), so he’s nursing an Irish whiskey with bitters and a splash of hot water, simple but warming when the wind is howling down the chimney the way it is right now, and he’s reclining on his sofa with his music set to shuffle, letting lurid pictures drift pleasantly in and out of his slightly sozzled brain.</p><p>He wonders what Q is like drunk. Giggly? Stupid? Does he always stop before he feels compromised? Probably not. M often didn’t at that age. He had more faith in his luck back then.</p><p>He’d rather like to see Q stupid. Falling down drunk.</p><p>The trouble with negotiations – important as they are – is all the random things, the so very many random things, they leave out. Like <em>I’d like to see you safely home and tuck you into my bed with a glass of water. I could lie here and wait for you to get up in the morning, pretend to be a perfect gentleman until you emerged, hungover and dishevelled.</em></p><p>Or <em>I’d like to see you scrabbling and animal and barely able to string a thought together for lust</em> (Because God knows that’s how M feels far too much of the time lately).</p><p>They are having dinner tomorrow. Coming back here. He’s got at least a part of what he wants (He’d forgotten how hard it is to stop wanting).  </p><p>Kate Bush spins up next. Mallory hadn’t understood a word of the lyrics when this came out, and he doesn’t think it impacted his enjoyment at all. It’s the way the song swoops around and back that caught his imagination, the voice another musical instrument, competing with the rush of the wind behind the airbrick in the fireplace. It must be blowing a gale outside.  </p><p>No doubt 007 could find a way for an assassin to murder him through there as well. Chlorine gas or something. Carbon monoxide poisoning, if they wanted to be discreet.</p><p>Tiny robots with poison darts. Q branch could build something – but now he’s being ridiculous, and the thought of assassination by remote control has always disturbed him on some instinctive level anyway. If you’re willing to kill you should be willing to look death in the face. And you should make it bloody quick, even if you secretly think they deserve worse.</p><p>The thought sparks something – a reflex that has him raising his elbow and flexing the fingers of his left hand, leaving his glass temporarily balanced on his chest. His arm has completely healed now, but either it’s got lazy in the interim, or having it out of action has made him realise just how much he neglects it.</p><p>It used to be the reliable hand, the one that provided a steady pulse whilst his right made intricate patterns. Sudden jumps and broken chords and demi-semi-quavers.  He consciously uses it now to reach for the small jug of hot water and tip a little more in his drink, feeling the extra warmth through the bottom of the glass, a tiny pool of heat in the centre of his ribcage.</p><p>What would Q have said, he wonders, had he responded with ‘<em>Yes, I want to hurt you, will you let me?</em>’. Probably (hopefully? Yes, hopefully, although it wasn’t what M had hoped at the time) exactly what he did say. Still it doesn’t hurt to let these idle thoughts coalesce and dissolve. Laced through with the taste of heat and bitters on his tongue and a vague awareness that the music is all strings now, something baroque. Corelli perhaps.</p><p>All the things you don’t say. All the very good reasons you don’t say them..</p><p>
  <em>I’d like to make you cry. </em>
</p><p>(Q had been wiping his eyes at his predecessor’s funeral. But those aren’t the sort of tears M means.)</p><p>He wants to make him smile too though, and has the pleasure of it over dinner, talking about absolutely nothing – they pick up the discussion on phone numbers, which Q has never had to memorise, although anything he sees regularly does tend to stick, like his national insurance number and various access codes. He also knows more about mechanical telephone exchanges that anyone could possibly need to know this side of the millennium, only cutting the stream of information off dead when he decides he’s being too geeky.</p><p>‘I’ll tell you if I’m bored, Q.’ Mallory assures him, gesturing for the waiter to bring him coffee as Q concentrates on finishing the poached trout he’s been neglecting and thinks that <em>I’ll tell you if I’m bored </em>is not really as encouraging as M presumably meant it to be.</p><p>It’s been a pleasant evening though. More pleasant, strictly speaking, than it needed to be. It’s possible M is trying to reassure him and help him wind down a bit. Or, just as likely, that M always has his dinner in quiet restaurants and sees no reason to change his routine just because Q is there.</p><p>Certainly he takes his time savouring his coffee.</p><p>Only when they've both rejected the dessert menu does he allow his hands to stray beneath the tablecloth, stroking up the one intentional crease in Q’s trousers and making his breath hitch.</p><p>They’re at a corner table, on a Wednesday evening. There is no-one near them, and no-one who knows them, and even if there were they couldn’t possibly know what is happening as long as Q doesn’t react.</p><p>M’s thumb traces where his thighs would kiss if they were muscular enough, and Q can feel his skin shiver in response, can feel the heat of a blush rising in his cheeks as M's fingers slide down further, palm curving to the shape of Q's thigh, squeezing and pulling his legs more widely apart.</p><p>‘Not here.’ Q pleads, uneasy, afraid of being seen, even by strangers. Of being humiliated. </p><p>The touch disappears at once.</p><p>‘When we’re alone then.’</p><p>'Sorry.' </p><p>'It's quite alright Q. I'll ask for the bill.' </p>
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Safely home, M barely gives Q long enough to shrug his parka off and hang it up before he’s pinning him back against the cream-painted wood and kissing him.</p><p>They might not have kissed before this, but Q has no hesitation now that they’re alone, unsurprised to find muscle hidden under those suits as M throws more of his weight forward, crowding more closely.</p><p>It’s not even as simple as M being physically stronger – most of the men who’ve ever kissed Q have been stronger - it’s the balance he has, the knowing where to put his hands, how to subdue. Q <em>knows </em>he can’t get away.</p><p>It sends his pulse racing, makes the gentle, coaxing pace of the kiss an exercise in frustration. They’ve both been slowly simmering since the restaurant, but M refuses to rush, thwarts Q when he tries.</p><p>There’s not more than two inches difference, but it feels more when M pulls back without letting him follow, fingers tightly woven in his hair, clearly more amused than annoyed.</p><p>‘Behave yourself Q.’</p><p>Q is irritated to find himself pouting, resting his palms flat against those solid shoulders as if he’s planning to push M away.</p><p>‘Try it if you like.’</p><p>And that attempt ends up with Q pinned to the door by both wrists and a knee insinuated between his legs, even more helpless than before and self aware enough to know that’s exactly why he did it.</p><p>They’re both still - what, feeling out the parameters? Negotiating, even though they’re not speaking.  </p><p>He shivers as M leans in, mouth right by his ear, murmuring ‘You are not in charge here,’ in a voice like a caress, the warmth of his breath faint against Q’s neck, and if Q wasn’t weak before he is now.</p><p>M steals his glasses between kisses, and Q doesn’t even peek to see where they’ve gone.</p><p>Doesn’t ask for them back as he’s steered through doorways and past furniture, only the faint ambient light from the street and a hand in the small of his back to guide him. It’s disconcerting, the soft edges and shadows of a place he has no internal map of, a bed that only really comes into focus once he’s on it, kicking off his shoes. A pool of brightness cast by the bedside lamp M flicks on before pinning him down again, getting close enough that Q can see how the colour of M’s iris darkens to grey at the circumference, the lines that radiate out towards his temple but haven’t reached it yet.</p><p>His mouth is hot on Q’s neck and a thigh slides easily back between his own. Q frots against it slowly, eagerly, as M asks him if he likes being held down.</p><p>‘Be careful of my hands.’ It’s an answer of a kind, and the way he’s seeking friction against M’s leg is surely answer enough too. The way his pulse beats in his throat, against Gareth’s lips, as he works himself up, heat trapped between them, clothes twisting and tightening, bedclothes rucking as his feet try to find purchase.</p><p>M kisses him again as he works himself up, wrists flexing under firm hands (he promises to be careful, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be firm), hair clinging and coiling as his skin grows damp, the rocking of his hips more urgent.</p><p>‘That’s enough.’ M presses just a little harder for a moment then lets go. ‘Stay where you are for me.’ He sits back, leaves Q blinking, dishevelled, with nothing to frot against except his own clothing, nothing to pin him down except the fact he wants to be. Wrists still turned outwards as if he’s just fallen backwards into the sheets, stilling despite the obvious frustration, the bitten lip, the blush of colour.</p><p>He’s wearing a belt, a slim brown functional thing that is easily undone with one hand, slid free and discarded. Careful to keep the pressure light, barely stimulating, M unbuttons Q’s cord trousers and slides the zip down.</p><p>Q tries to be still, but he can feel the hitch in his breath, twitches at the base of his spine, the base of his cock, instinctive movements he struggles to stifle. Only growing stronger as M pulls the elastic of his underwear down, gets his hands inside.</p><p>Stops, immediately, as Q’s hips move again – not even a thrust, merely giving M more room to shimmy his clothes down. <span class="u">U</span>nacceptable all the same.</p><p>‘I said that’s enough.’</p><p>Q’s eyes are bright slivers, probably trying to gauge how annoyed M is (not at all, actually, although he knows he sounds severe). ‘Sorry.’</p><p>‘We’ll try that again shall we?’</p><p>‘Yes sir.’</p><p>M’s touch is still light, slow, absolutely maddening as he plays with Q’s cock as if he’s never touched one before, as if it’s curiosity that leads him to slide his foreskin back and up again, run the pads of his fingers around the ridge under the head, his thumb over the sensitive slit.</p><p>The damn thing jerks practically of it’s own volition, and Q curses internally as M stops stroking him again.</p><p>‘Sorry.’</p><p>This time M says nothing. Only waits a few seconds before beginning again.</p><p>Q digs his fingers into the sheets. That’s allowed, apparently. He can feel his higher brain functions trying to switch off again, not to think, just to feel, but if he does that he will move, and M will stop, so he has to stay alert to the trembling in his thighs and the heat gathering in the teasing wake of M’s fingers, the bastard confidence that he has Q under control. This weaponizing of gentleness, of being careful.</p><p>He’s so hot his shirt is sticking to him, and M is working faster in increments, rewarding him for how good he’s being, and his palm is firm and curved and perfect..</p><p>And disappears at once as Q loses control of himself again. Falls back against the sheets panting.</p><p>‘No apology this time?’ M prompts.</p><p>‘Sorry.’</p><p>‘That’s better.’ M starts where he left off. Truth is he’s had his fun playing with Q’s frustration, is very nearly ready to get to the meat of the matter. It wouldn’t do to let Q know that before time though. One more lapse, one more apology, and then he’ll get him out of those clothes.</p><p>Q co-operates with being stripped, relieved, even though his skin feels sensitive as M lets his hands stray over his shoulders as he bares them, up his chest, his thumb tease across the pulse point of his wrists as he fiddles with the cuffs, tweaks the peak of a nipple as he unbuttons his shirt.</p><p>‘Should I..’ Q’s fingers touch M’s collar, waiting for permission. He’s learning.</p><p>M lets Q remove his tie and loosen his shirt, shrugs it off his shoulders with his braces. </p><p>Deals with the rest himself, as efficiently as possible, before he pins Q’s hands behind his back, only loosely, confident of his co-operation while M resumes stroking him again.</p><p>‘Shall I tell you what I’m going to do?’ M asks, not bothering to wait for an answer. ‘I’m going to get you off and then have your pretty mouth.’</p><p>‘Might be a bit sloppy.’ Q warns him, stammering. Breathless.</p><p>‘I’ll deal with that when we get there.’ Q’s fringe is sticking to his forehead as he rocks his hips, no restrictions about keeping perfectly still now, and M is enjoying his eagerness, the needy sounds and flex of stomach and thigh, the scrabble of feet against smooth cotton and press of his shoulder to M’s as he tries to find more leverage. M’s grasp is no longer too gentle, no longer too slow, drawing sensation out of him with each breath, heat quick and catching as his arse tightens down on something that isn’t there, but that’s alright, another time maybe, if M..</p><p>‘Good boy. Come on.’ M has both Q’s wrists in one hand. He flexes them slightly, not trying to break free, trying to feel that he’s held, pulled between M’s two hands, lost to himself.</p><p>He throws his head back when he comes, hips arching off the bed, body bent like a bow.</p><p>The blowjob after <em>is</em> sloppy. Q can’t seem to co-ordinate his lips and tongue and sense of rhythm, but M’s hands are in his hair, and Q is braced with his forearms over M’s thighs and quite willing for his mouth to be fucked, wet and messy, with everything smelling of sex, of heat and bodies and musk.</p><p>There’s a solidity, on his tongue and under his own skinny forearms, sliding in the sweat at the back of his neck, and now his technique is coming together, soft sucking and long swipes of tongue, the temporary exhaustion of orgasm being shaken off, matching what he can tell M wants, moving in synch.</p><p>He glances up beneath lashes and surprises something like greed and something like disbelief, like M is the one hypnotised, before he looks away again, focusses on what he’s doing.</p><p>M is still setting the pace, swifter, a little deeper, nothing Q can’t prevent by shifting back, but he doesn’t shift back, lets himself be managed, lets himself be used.</p><p>More mess, cum and spittle, half swallowed and half smeared against his chin, both of them pulling away too late, not far enough, not really trying to prevent it.</p><p>M has tissues, wipes Q’s dripping mouth, his eyes. He’s more or less clean himself – Q bore the brunt of both orgasms.</p><p>‘Do you want a flannel or something?’</p><p>‘I’m fine.’</p><p>Q is already on his belly, stretching in the contained but luxurious way cats do. M settles himself on his back, decides he’s too bloody tired to walk to the bathroom anyway. If he gets up he’ll want to brush his teeth and be made fully awake and he really can’t be bothered with that at all.</p><p>‘Glasses on the bedside cabinet if you need them.’ He murmurs sleepily, and lets his delicious tiredness take him.</p>
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